


Three Days

by MothTale



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Cute, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Half Jokes, I'm Sorry, M/M, Marco Whumpage, Minor Descriptions of Gore, Misery, Not Alternate Universe, Sadness, Somewhat Implied JeanMarco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-15 12:45:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 16,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1305331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MothTale/pseuds/MothTale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It might seem like a good thing, at first. Jean gets Marco back from the dead, but there's a time limit. He's only got three days before he has to let him go again. To make matters worse, Marco doesn't know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't usually write fanfiction, but the plot for this just dropped into my head, sort of like a spider, and refused to leave. The resurrection stuff is somewhat based on the film Wake Wood.

There was a heart beating next to him in the dark. Jean could hear it, clear as day. If he reached out his hand he believed he would feel flesh, warm with life. He lay on his side. There was a shape, dimly defined, right next to him. That heartbeat, it wasn't in his head. If he only moved his hand, he would touch him. He flexed his fingers, trying to draw them up, to reach out. He couldn't understand why his head was throbbing so. Maybe it was because he wasn't breathing; hadn't taken a breath since he’d realised there was someone else there and another heart was beating in the dark. Jean could hear him, sleepy breathing he recognised from their training years, when he’d been in the bed above his. If he only reached out his hand.

 

There was the jacket. The last time Jean had seen it it had been torn and bloody, swallowed up by the flames on the funeral pyre. His hand felt the shape of an arm, the right arm. A sliver of air made it past his lips. His head throbbed, his hand tightened its grip. He heard slow, soft sleepy sounds and then his name.  
“Jean…?”  
“Shit.” If Jean could have held matches without his hands shaking he’d have lit the lamps, so he could see that freckled face. Make absolutely sure. It was his voice. “Marco…”  
“Jean, why am I in your bed?”  
Jean felt him shifting, turning away from him. His hand slid over his arm, losing its grip on the sleeve which wasn't even there when he found him, lying slumped at the base of that wall.  
“Don’t move, Marco. Y-You fell. You hit your head. A Titan had hold of one of the cables on your manoeuvre gear, but it’s ok, I killed it. I, uh, didn't want to leave you lying on the floor, so I…”  
As he spoke, he could feel Marco moving. He wasn't even sure what he was saying, whether Marco would believe him. The battle of Trost had faded in his memory, apart from a few hideous moments, the clarity of which never seemed to diminish no matter what.  
“I've still got my boots on…”  
“Well, I was pretty tired too y’know.”  
“You’re not hurt?”  
Jean managed a breath, a short gasp which seemed to cut the inside of his chest. He ground his teeth together, trying not to think about that day. Marco, smiling, thanking him, encouraging him with that stupid, forthright kindness. And then finding him, the better half of him, grimacing stiffly. And he was asking if he was hurt?  
“I’m fine, Marco. What about you? Any damage?” He found Marco’s sleeve again, and grasped his arm.  
“No, just the side of my face. It’s kind of sore.”  
Jean couldn't stand it anymore. He leant back, trying to keep a hand on Marco, worried he would disappear back into the dark if he ceased to hold him for more than a second. It was no use. He needed both hands to light the lamp by his bed. Those moments were a kind of torture. He tried to listen for the sound of Marco’s breathing, but he wasn’t asleep anymore and it wasn't so loud. The blood was rushing through his head, so badly he could barely hear the scrape of the match. Then the room was bathed in an orange glow. He looked around, and saw Marco, both halves of him, connected and animated with life. Brown eyes, those freckles, a frown on his face. He looked worried. Jean could feel his hands shaking. There wasn't a mark on him. No blood on his uniform. It was him, definitely him.  
“Jean?”  
“What?”  
“You’re pale.”  
“You just…you worried me, that’s all. I didn't know where you were.” He could hear the fear in his own voice. He didn't sound like himself at all. Then Marco smiled.  
“Hey, you worried me too. Seeing you running around, when your manoeuvre gear was broken... What about everyone else? Armin? Connie? The others?”  
“They’re fine. Eren’s as full of himself as ever…”  
“Then, it was a success - he did it?”  
Jean blinked, looking at Marco and realising that he didn't know when he’d been killed. He didn't know if he’d have had time to see the smoke signals, to know Eren had sealed the gate.  
“Yeah,” he struggled to smile, to look like he was pleased, “Yeah, that suicidal bastard did it.”  
“I’m glad. Where are they all?”  
He’d never thought this far ahead. He didn't think through what he was going to tell him, to make him stay in the room. Three days, that was all he had. If other people saw Marco like this, then they might get in the way. He only had three days. If he let them see, Marco might find out what had happened to him. He couldn't let him find out he was dead. But he wasn't dead, he was lying right there and he was waiting for an answer.  
“Well, they’re conducting this inquiry, about Eren, so he’s there. And so are Mikasa and Armin. The others are around somewhere. I think everyone’s resting.”  
Jean didn't think he thought he was lying. Marco could have no reason for thinking it was a lie. He’d never intentionally lied to him before, not seriously anyway. Jean saw him start to take off his boots. His manoeuvre gear was gone. Jean felt his teeth lock together, grinding against one another. He hadn't lost it, it had been taken, by Annie. She’d gotten there before him, maybe when the blood was still wet, or even when the body was still warm. As warm as it was now.  
Marco moved to take off his jacket a grimace passed over his face.  
“What’s wrong?” Jean scrambled over the bed, closer to Marco’s side. His right fist was clenched, the arm frozen in mid-movement.  
“Nothing much. My right arm…it just hurt all of a sudden.” Marco looked at him, probably saw the panic etched all over his face. “I probably just overdid it with the manoeuvre gear. Don’t worry Jean.”  
“Damn it,” Jean muttered, too sharply. Marco looked at him, his lips set in that anxious expression, then finished shrugging off his jacket. He started unbuckling the straps of his harness. It still didn't seem real. Jean had seen the bones, burning, mingling together with all the other dead until he didn't know which bones were Marco’s and which weren't. He’d heard his heart beating though, he’d felt the warmth from his skin. He was here, despite those bones he’d held in his palm.  
“Damn it,” he said again, lunging forward and wrapping an arm across Marco’s chest, pressing his face to his shoulder. There, he could feel it. He was alive. Alive, and sitting here with him. It was one o’clock in the morning.  
“Hey, Jean, what’s wrong?”  
He’d startled him. They’d been close before, hugged a few times – and that was usually Marco doing the hugging – but not like this. Three days. He had until sunset three days from now.  
“I didn't know where you were.” He hissed it angrily, though it was hardly Marco the emotion was aimed at. “And then, when I found you-” No. He had to stop. He couldn't end up blurting out the truth. “You said I wasn't strong, and then you end up getting-” He swallowed, checked himself in time. His cheek was resting against one of those damn buckles. The tighter he held onto Marco, the more it hurt.  
“You really were worried about me?”  
“Marco, you’re not Connie. Stop being dense.”  
“Can you let go of me? I’m actually kinda tired.”  
Jean let go. He hardly took his eyes off him. Flesh or not, he could still disappear in an instant like faery gold. He couldn’t help but want to be close, just to be certain. Marco still smiled, his eyelids drooping. He lay back, against the pillow. There was no way Jean could sleep now. When Marco’s eyes closed, and his breathing settled into that familiar pattern Jean still felt he couldn't look away. If he wasn't watching, he might go again. He watched, with the lamp turned down low, and when it ran out, he put his face even closer to Marco’s on the pillow so he could be sure he was still breathing. He kept repeating to himself, ‘three days, I’ve got three days’. Three days, and then he had to work out how, after this, he could possibly say goodbye.


	2. Chapter 2

It had happened after their return from the disastrous 57th Expedition. They’d taken a short break, once they were safely beyond Wall Rose, to give the horses a chance to rest. Jean had felt no desire to talk to his comrades, to share in the doling out of consolations, or the swapping of gloomy predictions regarding the immediate future of the Survey Corps and Eren Jaeger. Jean walked instead towards a small copse, still within sight of the company, and there he collapsed, weary and fed up, at the base of the first tree he came to. He held his head in his hands, covering his eyes and just trying not to think for a few moments, not to try and anticipate, to work out the situation. It wasn't all that complicated. The situation was dire. In this world it could hardly be anything other than that; situation status: eighty per cent fucked and charging the rest of the way there. Jean grinned without humour, and rubbed the back of his neck, shrugged his shoulders. He’d hurt worse before, but he’d seldom felt so dispirited, so hopeless. He didn't even hear the snapping of twigs, the rustling as she approached.  
“You've lost someone. Someone close.”  
She was unremarkable, neither ugly nor beautiful. When Jean woke up the following morning he could not recall one solid detail about her face, only a vague impression that it had not seemed unkind or evil. Jean was more startled by her sudden appearance than by what she said. There was hardly a person in the Survey Corps you could approach with that line who could tell you truthfully that you were mistaken.  
“What do you want?” he snapped at her, jumping to his feet and ready and wary. His comrades were not far away and this was no Titan. He was in no danger, that he could see, but all the same he felt uneasy.  
“You've lost a friend, very recently. He was important to you.”  
Another guess, it had to be. She had a fifty per cent chance of being right whichever gender she picked, and for all she knew he could have lost multiple friends. Jean felt himself take a step back.  
“What are you after? Why the questions?”  
“Just answer them. Have you lost a friend?”  
“Yes. So what?”  
Her eyes, whatever colour they had been, were fixed on him with something cold, almost dull, in their expression. “If he saw you now do you think he’d be proud of you? Are you lonely without him? Do you miss him?”  
“Of course I miss him! It’s because of him I’m here now…I,” Jean was surprised to hear these things coming out of his mouth. He looked at the woman. There was something wrong with her. She was smiling now, pale lips drawn back into a smile which looked more like the rubbery expression of the Titans than anything human.  
“What do you want from me?” Jean hissed. He turned an eye towards the column of carts and horses, still stationary on the road.  
“I am going to offer you a chance. A rare opportunity.” She reached towards her skirt pocket, drew something up out of it. “You can see him again.”  
The image came into Jean’s head, and nothing could stop it. How long had he been lying there before Jean had found him? His skin was so pale and grey, one eye gazing sightlessly down towards the ground. Would it have been better if he had been looking upwards, towards the sky?  
“I saw enough,” the words almost choked him.  
“Not like that. It wouldn't be like that.” She stepped closer. She took his wrist, which felt limp with exhaustion, and pulled his hand towards her. She pressed something into his palm. It felt soft, like wool.  
“Take this with you. When you unbind the strings he will return, but for a short time only.”  
Jean looked down at the object in his hand. It was red, and for a moment the strings looked like flesh. A lump of wool, wrapped tight into the shape of a heart, the human organ, dyed bright crimson. There was a small knot in its centre, woven into the mesh in the heart’s core. A single strand hung down. It felt like hours passed before Jean was able to speak and ask “How long?”  
This time the woman paused before speaking. “A day,” she said at last, in tones which sounded like the death knell. Jean’s fingers sunk into the woven heart.  
“Only a day? Can’t it be longer?” He reached out, as if to grab a hold of the woman’s arm and shake her. He froze though, when she looked at him.  
“Three days. It is the longest I can offer.”  
“How…- If you can bring him back for three days then surely you can bring him back for longer? A year, at least?”  
Her expression showed no leniency, no change from the icy expression she had worn since she had handed over the woollen heart.  
“Three days. It is that, or nothing. What will you do?”  
Jean looked down at the object in his hand. There was no guarantee. She could be lying, toying with him. She might be mad. Surely he was mad for considering such a thing. They were always told to look forward. And would this not be a betrayal of all that?  
“I just untie the knot right?” His mouth felt dry, like sandpaper.  
“Yes.”  
He looked for the smile again, as he walked away from her but, if anything, her expression was colder than before.

He didn't pull it for some time. He didn't have the chance. There was Eren and Annie, and everything going to shit in barely six seconds flat. But he never forgot about it. He had to stop himself from endlessly checking that little bundle of strings was in his pocket where it was supposed to be. But now he had his chance. A few days leave and a dingy little room in Trost. His family didn't know he was there, but it felt good to be back in his hometown, especially when it wasn't shaking with Titan footfalls. As Jean lay down that night, he drew out the woollen heart. The crimson colour of it had not faded one bit. The neat little knot had not loosened either. Jean ripped it apart. The whole thing unravelled, crackling with static. He dropped it, when it burned his fingertips, and it disappeared before it touched the floor. It was as if he had never even had it in his hand. He looked around the room, expecting, if he expected anything at all, to see Marco standing there, smiling at him as if he hadn't been dead for months. He was alone. The sun was setting behind him, and the room was the colour of a fire. Angry, Jean slumped against the wall, under the window and out of sight from the sun. He put his hands up by his head as his shoulders shuddered. He was baring his teeth, like a cornered animal. Coiled up, he sat there until the sun set and when it was just the moon there the wall resounded with a sound thump as he threw his head back, striking it against the wood. He was still clenching his teeth, but nothing was helping to stop the tear tracks running down his face. His fist struck the wall. Ineffective, it felt like he was having a temper tantrum. Even so, it felt like it took much too much effort to pull himself up, to undress and put himself to bed. It took even longer for him to fall asleep. But then, the sound of someone breathing next to him brought him right back to wakefulness.


	3. Chapter 3

If he didn't wake up soon Jean was seriously considering punching him. Of course, he couldn't actually hit him. He’d more likely end up smothering him in a hug. His heart was still pounding a bit from the panic when he’d realised he’d fallen asleep and that Marco might not be there anymore. He’d woken with a convulsive movement like Frankenstein’s monster rising from the slab, flinging the sheets off him and piling them onto the body which still rested, with a dreamy look on its face, by his side. Remarkably, none of this woke Marco, who lay on his back with his left arm draped over his chest, and his right lying out of sight beside him. Beneath the obvious joy at seeing him still there, still in one piece, Jean felt anger again, bitter and he wasn't sure why. He climbed out of bed and went to look out the window. It was still early, judging by the sun. He washed his face and put on a different shirt in compliance with minimum standards of cleanliness but didn't leave the room. He sat on the floor, near Marco’s bed, and tried to resist the urge to punch him awake. He looked five years younger and about twenty per cent more rural. And it didn't look like he intended to wake up any time soon. Jean leant forward and pulled a bit of hair away from his eyes. He touched Marco’s face, the right side of it. The skin didn't feel too warm or feverish. What Marco had said the night before had bothered him. But it all felt fine. Marco made a sound, somewhere between a groan and a yelp, and turned over. Jean pulled his hand away as if he’d hurt him, but he’d only just touched him. Lightly, he flicked him in the face. Marco opened one eye.  
“Why?” He smiled tiredly.  
“You looked too damn happy.”  
“You didn't have to hit me in the face,” Marco sighed, sitting up somewhat stiffly.  
“How are you feeling?” Jean tried not to sound like he had before. He tried not to let any fear enter his voice.  
“Oh, you mean my head? It’s not too bad actually.” He pushed off the piled covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed. As he stood up he pitched to the right. Jean only just caught him, Marco’s full weight slammed into him and would have sent them both sprawling if Jean had not collided with the wall. Jean didn't say anything, just held his breath and waited for Marco to say something.  
“Sorry,” Marco mumbled, getting upright again. He balanced on one leg, putting his right foot down tentatively. “It just went numb. Probably muscle strain or something.”  
“Can you stand on it now?”  
“Yeah, it’s fine.”  
There was nothing Jean could really do if it wasn't fine. He noticed Marco looking towards the windows.  
“We’re still in Trost?”  
“Well, yeah, no more Titans here remember.” Jean felt as if he were step by step ascending a very tall, very rickety staircase. Lying didn't come naturally to him.  
“Are we not needed to clear things up? The rubble and…-”  
Jean knew what the next word was going to be. Corpses. The word alone was enough to bring back the smell, the sound of flies increasing in pitch the closer you got to some part you’d missed. He knew he looked pale. He’d felt the blood drain from his face. Jean shook his head.  
“Then, we’re going to be heading to the Inner District pretty soon then?”  
Jean sighed. “Marco, I changed my mind about that. I’m…I’m going to join the Survey Corps.”  
Marco blinked. Jean had expected him to be slightly more surprised than he was.  
“Well say something, or I’ll think that you’re angry.”  
“I’m not. When did you decide that?” He didn't look angry, he didn't even look all that confused.  
“After the battle,” Jean said, sitting down on the bed.  
“So, you’re joining up with Eren, Mikasa and Armin then?”  
“That guy’s got nothing to do with it. In fact, pretty much everyone else said they were going to join too. Everyone except Annie.” Half way to saying the name it occurred to Jean that he might be triggering something, but when he looked up Marco was still looking at him with a bemused sort of expression.  
“You talked to everyone else already then?” Marco asked, and if it was a suspicious remark he was succeeding in concealing it in his voice. He sounded, to Jean’s ears, more like he was afraid of being left out.  
“I, uh, saw some of them when I was dragging you here.”  
“You’re set on it, huh?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Well, in that case…”  
“They’re letting us have three days leave.” The lie slipped from his lips so much more easily this time. Marco didn't even blink at this one.  
“Well, what were you going to do? You’re going to visit your family aren't you?” Marco said.  
Jean sighed. “I feel like they wouldn't exactly appreciate my change of plans. What about you, what did you want to do?”  
Marco shrugged. Jean was glad to see not even the trace of a wince this time when he moved his right side. “I wanted to see Armin, to check how he was, but if he’s in the Inner District with Eren and Mikasa then I guess I don’t know.”  
The room felt musty all of a sudden. Jean wanted out of it, his head felt clouded. “I was going to go get something to eat. Did you want to come too?” Jean knew he was acting off, and before long Marco would catch him out on it.  
Marco smiled again. “Sure.”


	4. Chapter 4

Jean hurled an unmarked cape at Marco.  
“You might want this. It’s kinda cold outside.”  
“Is that so? Thanks.”  
Marco put it on without question. He didn't pull the hood up though, which had of course been Jean’s founding reason for handing it to him. The chances of them passing people they knew were small, but it was still a chance. Jean looked out at the infuriatingly cloudless sky and wished for rain. That at least would make Marco pull his hood up, or better yet agree to stay put in the room for a little longer.

Jean realised it was a mistake the moment they came to the end of the street. There was a house there which had been partially crushed by Titans in the battle of Trost with scaffolding all around it and the second floor only partially reconstructed. He braced himself for an awkward question from Marco’s direction, but it never came. He looked round, and saw that Marco’s eyes were nowhere near the house. They were fixed on the ground, but the unfocused look in them told Jean he really wasn't seeing anything. He stopped, and sure enough Marco bumped into him. It was the second time that day that Marco had almost knocked him over.  
“Hey Marco, you actually awake back there?”  
“Sorry. I’m still a little out of it.”  
Jean was starting to become really concerned. The thing with his arm he could understand, but that it seemed to be affecting the rest of his body, like the way his leg had buckled under him and the drowsy way he was acting, worried him a whole lot more. That strange woman had not mentioned anything about what Marco would be like, any sort of side effects, so for all he knew this was normal. Of course there was nothing normal about any of this. People didn't normally come back from the dead, even just for a couple of days. He had trusted that Marco would be the same as he had been before. He supposed he should be lucky he hadn't returned as a coma patient. But still, it was worrying to see him like this, stumbling about like that.  
“…feels sort of like I’m only half there this morning.”   
Marco smiled, but that was not enough to prevent the chill which gripped Jean when he heard those words.  
“Don’t joke. What, do you have a concussion or something?”  
Marco shook his head, stepping round to walk ahead of Jean. Jean at once stepped forward at the same time, and they ended up smacking into each other’s shoulders. Marco grinned at him, and Jean struggled to quash some of his irritation. The fear was making him feel ill. He wanted to go back, to drag Marco back with him, and curl up in that room and never let go of him until he was torn from him. ‘I really missed you’, he wanted to say, but how could he? ‘I wished I’d been there with you. I wished you hadn't had to be alone.’ All of it was impossible to speak without letting Marco know that he was dead, and that in less than three days he’d go back to being dead.

They sat by the river holding freshly baked bread. Jean found his appetite was non-existent, but Marco was eating like he hadn't eaten in months. Jean ended up giving the rest of his roll to Marco, for he really couldn't stomach it. It made him feel better to see Marco’s grateful smile, to hear him ask if it was alright no less than five times before he finally took the damn bread.  
“People seem pretty calm. It’s nice,” Marco commented, between mouthfuls, as he looked around at the stream of people strolling up and down the river.  
“Yeah, well, it’s a rare occasion isn't it? We snatched this place back from the Titans, that’s never happened before.” Jean thought he had spotted at least one or two smug expressions amidst the crowds, people who’d heard about the fight in Stohess, and were glad that the people behind Wall Sina were finally getting first-hand knowledge of the Titan’s destructive power. He couldn't feel as positive towards humanity as Marco did.  
“I don’t really remember much,” Marco said quietly. “I remember the supply HQ, and then I remember going to try and help you, and then I think I remember going down to the streets again, and something…I don’t know. I guess it doesn't matter.”  
“Yeah, I guess not. I remember watching my comrades getting eaten, and not doing a single thing about it. We made it to supply HQ on the blood of those soldiers.”  
Jean felt a hand on his shoulder. “We wouldn't have made it there at all if you hadn't led us.”  
Jean swiped Marco’s hand away.  
“Damn it Marco, let me feel shitty about this if I want to. You know what Mikasa saw? She saw some guy from the elite squad pull one of his comrades from a Titan’s mouth. He sacrificed himself for a friend…”  
“And that’s the kind of thing you aspire to, is it?”  
“No. You already know I wouldn't be capable of it.”  
“I know you’re a better person than you think you are,”  
“Well, you know something I don’t.”  
When Jean looked round at him Marco was smiling. “Can we go see it? The gate Eren sealed. I want to see it with my own eyes.”  
Jean made an effort to drown all his irritation, all his worry. “If we have to, I guess. Next you’ll be wanting to write that bastard a goddamn fan-letter or something.”  
Marco punched his shoulder lightly. Jean watched as he got up, watching again for any sign of pain. He thought he saw a grimace briefly touch his face, but the sun was in his eyes. Marco held out a hand to him. It was his left, Jean noted.  
“Come on then, sooner we get there the sooner I can be done with you going ‘Gee, isn't Jaeger something’.”  
Marco grinned at him. Jean felt his fists clench. Each carefree expression brought him a strange sort of pain. He was glad, to be able to see Marco smiling again, but then he knew it wouldn't last.


	5. Chapter 5

Marco was every bit as enthusiastic as Jean had expected. They stood around for almost ten minutes while Marco, wide-eyed and energetic as a puppy, ran from side to side inspecting the gate. There weren't all that many people around, which suited Jean fine. It meant there was no one around to recognise Marco and kick up a fuss.  
“I can’t believe he managed to lift this. I mean- it’s amazing isn't it? It makes you think that maybe we can win this.”  
“It’s hardly going to be as easy as that. What, do you think we just let Jaeger run the show and, hey, in a month or two, no Titans?”  
Marco wasn't perturbed by his pessimism one bit. “But, if he can turn into a Titan, than who can say that there aren't others too?”  
Jean froze, seeing Annie in his mind’s eye. Marco was by his side in an instant.  
“What’s wrong?”   
“Nothing’s wrong. Does it look like something’s wrong to you?”  
Marco frowned. “I just wish you’d tell me what’s wrong with you today. You’re not like yourself. I mean, the stuff you were saying about joining the Survey Corps…You never said anything about that to me before.”  
Jean’s jaw clenched once more. “Ok, so I changed my mind without you. You’re the one who’s always telling me what sort of a person I am. You can’t figure me out this one time, what the hell does it matter.”  
“It matters because you might die.”  
“So-” It was going to be ‘So might you,’ but Jean choked down the remainder of the sentence. The result sounded petulant, like a child moments before it starting throwing its toys around. Marco’s downcast eyes, the way he seemed to be trying to make himself smaller, that hurt expression which lingered around the edges of his mouth brought Jean right back to his senses.  
“Shit, I’m sorry Marco.” He caught him in a hug which was more like a headlock.  
“Uh, Jean? You didn't hit your head as well did you?”  
“What? You saying I need a head injury to be nice?”  
The smile was back, every freckle around his mouth rising to make way for it. Jean made a vow not to waste a moment more of it.  
“Right, are you done kissing Jaeger’s ass from afar already?”  
“I wasn't-“  
“Of course you weren't. Can we go?”  
“Where to?”  
Puppy-eyed, he really looked ready to follow him anywhere. Jean let him out of the headlock-hug. “I dunno, we could just walk I guess.”  
Marco had no complaints. They set out, away from the river, and Jean didn't care for anything but the fact that Marco was with him.

They had to end up at that place. Jean’s memory didn't warn him until it was too late. All the streets looked much the same, all the houses. There wasn't even a stain on the wood anymore, where Marco’s head, half of it anyway, had come to rest. The boards were all fixed, and the stones beneath their feet were not betraying anything. But Jean saw it, as vividly as if the scene before him were only a painting and his own memory the reality. He looked round for Marco, and made a grab for his arm. His eyes, Jean could swear to it, had been looking at that spot. Marco raised his eyes slowly. When they met Jean’s he smiled. Suspicion entered Jean’s mind. He wasn't saying anything. He had to be able to feel how hard he was gripping his arm, his fingertips digging in. He had to be leaving bruises, so how come he wasn't saying anything? Marco pushed him lightly, making him walk on. Jean hardly realised he had stopped. He prayed for Marco to say something, just so he could believe that he hadn't noticed, that he hadn't realised they had walked past the spot where he’d died.

“Did you sleep at all last night?”  
“Not much,” Jean admitted. They were sitting against the Wall.  
“I thought not,” Marco sighed, “You don’t look good.”  
Jean didn't even have the resolve to make a joke out of that. He’d grabbed the right arm, of course he had, and there they were, the five purple finger-marks to prove it. Marco hadn't mentioned it, hadn't even looked. Jean felt like he knew he was watching him. All of a sudden Marco slumped over, his head coming to rest on Jean’s shoulder. When Jean turned his head Marco’s hair tickled his nose. Marco grabbed his sleeve.  
“Marco?” Jean held his breath again.  
“Nothing’s wrong, I’m just tired,” Marco murmured. Jean struggled to hear him. An old man walking by alone nodded and smiled at them.  
“I think that old guy thought we were a couple,” Jean mumbled after he had passed out of sight. He felt Marco smile against his shoulder. He’d never felt that before, never felt closer to him. Gradually he felt Marco fall asleep, his weight pressing more and more against him. His face slipped against his shoulder. He could feel Marco’s eyelids flickering through the fabric of his shirt. Marco mumbled something in his sleep. Jean couldn't quite catch it. It sounded like ‘I’ something ‘you’. In his mind, Jean put it together as ‘I missed you’. He put his arm up round Marco, tucking his own cloak around him to fend off the cold. He felt for Marco’s right arm. He looked at the bruises, rubbing his thumb over them as if he could simply wipe them away like dust.


	6. Chapter 6

It was mid-afternoon before Marco woke. He apologised profusely, while Jean rubbed the life back into the bloodless appendage Marco had been using as a pillow.  
“Don’t worry about it. Jeez, who knew your head was so heavy.”  
“I didn't mean to fall asleep on you. It just crept up on me.”  
“I said don’t worry about it Marco. It was funny actually. This little girl came running up and tried to pat you on the head.”  
Marco blinked and then stretched. He looked better than before, there was more colour in his cheeks and his eyes, once he’d rubbed the sleep from them, looked a lot more focused.  
“Dream about me much?” Jean said, grinning and nudging Marco lightly.  
“About as much as I usually do.” Marco looked perfectly serious. Jean jumped up and wiped the dust off the backs of his thighs.  
“Jean, can we talk about the Survey Corps?”  
“Marco, nice way to kill the moment.”  
“Seriously, it’s an important decision and you can’t just-“  
“Can’t just what? Decide on my own?”  
Marco shrank back and mumbled an apology. He turned, as if to walk away, and Jean reached out to stop him.  
“Where are you going?”  
Marco looked at him with something horribly similar to fear. Jean realised he’d raised his voice rather more than he’d intended.  
“I’ll come back. I remember which building you’re staying in,” Marco said, ducking his head apologetically before turning and walking away, breaking into a jog when he was a few metres away. Jean made a weak attempt to call him back, but his voice was hardly audible even to himself. He cursed, inviting a loud tut from a woman walking past him. He raised his eyes and glowered at her, at which she made a loud sound of disgust, called him a brute, and flounced off as if he’d just argued with her rather than Marco. He thought about taking off after his freckled friend, his anxiety inducing friend, in fact he started walking the same way before he’d fully committed to chasing after him. He changed his mind though, when he stepped into the street and saw him only a few metres ahead of him. Marco turned back and smiled at him, as if to say he wasn't angry at all about the way Jean was acting. Jean decided to trust him. He smiled back, lowered his head and bent his steps homewards. On the way he passed some garrison troops in uniform. He recognised some of them from training. He pulled his hood up as he passed and didn't stop.

Something touched Jean’s knuckle. Another raindrop fell a moment later, hitting almost exactly the same place. Jean looked up to discover that the sky was grey, the clouds seeming to sag like the roof of a tent. A quartet of raindrops descended on his face. It was too late to think of trying to find Marco. Jean was only a few streets away from home, and besides he had said he knew his way back. Jean pulled his hood down further and ran the rest of the way. He managed to get in without getting too wet. The top of his cloak was a bit damp and so were his shoes, but otherwise he was dry. His landlady was about, and made sinister eyes at his wet boots as he headed up the stairs. He only kicked them off once he was in his room. He wondered about setting up a spare bed on the floor, but wondered if Marco would think that meant he was still pissed off with him. Instead, he went to the wardrobe, found his Survey Corps cloak and folded it up under the bed. He was wary of stretching things one lie too far. Likewise he gathered up all his uniform jackets, the ones sporting the wings of freedom over their backs, and put them in the same place. He spotted Marco’s jacket lying on the floor where it had fallen the night before. He looked at the crossed swords on the back. He wondered if this too would disappear, smoulder and turn to ash, when Marco ceased to be.

When Marco turned up, shivering and soaked, about half an hour later, Jean had already put out some clean, dry clothes for him. He threw a towel in Marco’s direction, managing, utterly by accident of course, to hit him in the face. He went downstairs while he changed, and came back upstairs with two mugs of hot apple cider he had persuaded his landlady to give him. It turned out she had a weakness for freckles too.  
“Here,” Jean said, handing Marco one of the mugs. Marco beamed at him, and held the mug up to his face until the skin turned pink before taking a sip. Jean’s clothes didn't fit him especially well, but they would have to do. He hung up Marco’s uniform by the window, and the pair of them sat on the floor.  
“Did you get lost in the rain or something?”  
Marco’s look was sheepish, but honest. He nodded.  
Jean rolled his eyes and picked up the towel again. “Hair,” he muttered, draping it over Marco’s head. Marco batted it off and shook his head like a dog. Jean put up a hand to block the scattering of water droplets.  
“We can talk now if you want,” Jean said, after the silence lasted for more than ten seconds.  
“I want to join up with you guys.” Marco’s voice was quiet. He gulped down another mouthful of cider before looking at Jean, as if waiting for his response.  
Jean blinked. “What happened to ‘there’s no higher honour than serving the king’?”  
“Well, I guess there’s more than one way to serve the king, not just the military police.” Marco looked at the floor and rubbed his leg absentmindedly.  
“What about dying? Wasn't that what you were worried about before?”  
“Worried for you,” Marco said, with a small smile. He drew in a breath, exhaled quickly, “I’m prepared for it, it doesn't scare me that much. I’d just like it to have a reason, for it to mean something. Do you know what I mean?” He looked up again, waiting for Jean to respond.  
“I guess that’s how I feel too. So, Survey Corps it is.”  
Marco didn't look up, seemingly engaged in staring at his feet. Jean reached out and ruffled his still-wet hair. “Hey, Marco. I’m glad. Y’know, otherwise it would just be me with the rest of those dicks, and it’d be sure to drive me insane inside of a month. I’d be begging for a Titan to come along and-…”  
“Jean!” Marco looked mildly horrified.  
“Right, poor taste, sorry.” Jean sighed and anticipated a return to the awkward silence.  
“It’ll be fine long as I’m with you,”  
“Did you really just say that Marco?” Jean was smiling, despite the nagging pain which was dividing itself neatly into two piles, one of regret and one of its complete opposite.  
Marco shrugged and downed the rest of the contents of the mug. His cheeks were flushed.  
“You still cold?”  
“Not really.”  
“You better not get sick,”  
“I don’t think I will. I wasn't in the rain that long.”  
“Yes you were. You were out there for over half an hour.”  
“Oh.” Marco drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs. “Well, I sheltered under a doorway for a bit. I was hoping it would stop.” He knocked his heels together. “It was strange, the streets were all empty and it sort of reminded me of something.”  
“What something?” Jean leaned forward, swallowing, or trying to at least, the lump forming in his throat.  
“A feeling. It just hit me all of a sudden. I’m sorry I walked off earlier. I wanted to be on my own, but then-,” he shrugged. “Please don’t laugh,” he looked up at Jean, his eyes wide, his expression pinched. Jean promised not to. He’d never seen Marco like this. Marco on the verge of trembling, or tearing up. Marco was always the calm one, keeping his shit together even when the rest of them were on the edge of hysteria. Marco’s lip trembled. “It felt like I was all alone. Like I was never going to see anyone ever again.”  
Jean grabbed Marco’s arm, held his hand tightly in his own. “You’re not alone, Marco.”  
Marco looked across at him. The smile was thin as a line, but it was there. Jean put his other arm around the back of Marco’s head and pulled him towards him. It felt right. A weight was lifted. “You won’t be alone. I’ll stay with you. I’ll always stay with you.”  
If he’d heard anyone else saying this sort of stuff, if someone had said it to him, Marco excluded of course, he’d have laughed at them. It was the sort of thing he wished he’d been able to say to Marco before.


	7. Chapter 7

They slept next to each other like children, lying face to face. Jean felt a brief blush touch his face when he opened his eyes and saw Marco asleep with the moonlight casting grey highlights onto his face. He could still see the freckles even. He didn't question himself too deeply, but he moved his hand lightly, so he could wrap it around Marco’s. His left hand lay on the pillow, next to his face, but the right lay curved over his body, flat on the sheet. Jean took hold of it, and felt the lightest of pressures in return. A few hours later Jean woke suddenly. Freshly resurfaced from nightmares, damp with sweat and being needled by his bladder he scrambled out of bed. Marco was still there, still in the same position, still breathing. Jean’s movement didn't disturb him one bit. Yet when Jean returned some time later, having lingered in the cool air of the courtyard, he had somehow manoeuvred himself into the middle of the bed, snuggling against the part of the pillow where Jean’s head had been. When Jean stepped closer and his knee hit the bed Marco’s eyes opened. He rolled over, back to where he had been. Jean sat down, his legs crossed, on his side of the bed but wouldn't lie down or close his eyes.  
“Did you have a nightmare?” Marco asked.  
Jean coughed, and nodded.  
“Do you want to tell me what it was about?”  
“I dreamt that you died. And that I wasn't there for you when it happened. I didn't even see it. I just found your body, lying there, with bits missing and it hadn't even crossed my mind that that’s where you’d be, that you weren't going to be alright.”  
He felt Marco’s hand touch his shoulder. He could feel his breath on the side of his neck. “But I’m not dead, right? I’m right here.”  
“Yeah,” Jean drew in a shaky breath, a smile stumbled at his lips. “Yeah, you’re right.”   
Marco moved his hand and mimicked the headlock-hug Jean had used on him before. “Are you going to go back to sleep?” he asked after a while.  
“Probably not,” Jean admitted. “You don’t have to stay awake with me if you’re tired.”  
“No, I’m ok.”  
“Really? You were tired before when you fell asleep on my shoulder, remember?”  
“I don’t know. I just don’t feel all that tired right now. The nightmare…did you have it last night as well? Is that why you couldn't sleep?”  
“I guess,” Jean leant back against the wall. Marco sat across from him, his chin touching his knees. “It was really vivid, like it actually happened, y’know?” Jean sighed. Marco smiled sympathetically.  
“You’ll find a way to handle it.”  
“I wish I could be so sure about that.”  
“You just will. But you won’t be helping anybody if you keep staying up like this. You need to rest.”  
“Sure thing Dr Bodt, I’ll get right onto it.”  
“Jean…”  
“Sorry Marco. I’m not trying to act like a dick, it just comes naturally.”  
There was silence for a while. Jean thought maybe Marco would lay back down and go back to sleep, but he stayed where he was.  
“The sky’s lightening already…” Marco commented. ‘Two days’, echoed like a knell in Jean’s mind, ‘that’s all I have left.’ Marco swivelled round slightly, so he could watch the windows. “I haven’t seen a sunrise in ages.”  
“What’s so great about the sun?”  
Marco looked at him, smiled, and shrugged. Jean shuffled forwards, so he could see the windows better. Jean been a bit miserly with this place, and so there were no curtains.  
“You can’t really see much from here. The buildings get in the way.” Jean frowned, underwhelmed by the sight. Miles away, over the other side of Trost, the Wall loomed. He hesitated over a suggestion. “We could go out of Trost, past Wall Rose, find a hill or something. You’d get a better view from there.”  
Marco shrugged again. “I don’t know, maybe it’s a little late now. I mean, we’d have to run or use manoeuvre gear to get there in time. I don’t mind watching from here. We could go tomorrow?”  
The sun came up. Jean didn't really look at it all that long. It was already light before the sun rose above the wall. He watched Marco instead, looking at the way his right hand was pressed to the right side of his face. It looked an accidental gesture, Marco’s expression was calm, contented, and yet Jean could not be quite comforted that all was as it should be.  
 


	8. Chapter 8

“Will he be staying long, your friend?” The landlady’s gaze was piercing, her will immutable. Freckles or not, she evidently had no intention of supporting a second person without due reparation.  
“He’ll be gone in a few days.”  
The landlady’s eyebrows rose. “How many days? ‘A few days’, it’s changeable. I've met lads for whom a few days means two weeks. I’ll not be cheated out of my fees.”  
“Fine, he’ll be gone by tomorrow night. I can assure you that.”  
“Alright, there’s no need to glare at me like that, laddy. I’m sure your mother would give you one hell of a wallop if you gave her a look like that. And you one of the military indeed.”  
“I don’t suppose you remember the Titans attacking Trost? I guess it must be so hard to remember such things once you reach your age.”  
The landlady turned crimson. It was perhaps not the wisest thing to do to insult someone when they were in the midst of cooking and had, within reach, no less than four potentially lethal implements. Marco, having descended the stairs moments before, came to the rescue. Thankfully the landlady did not snatch up the frying pan, still spitting fat on the stove, but instead grabbed a wooden spoon and Marco escaped with a mere stinging smack on the arm. Jean, standing behind him, blushed heavily as Marco apologised for him. The landlady’s good will towards Marco was renewed, and absolved Jean to some extent, though Jean noticed that the portions for breakfast were rather smaller than usual. It had always been Jean’s intention to leave this place immediately after the three days were up, but now he knew it was an absolute necessity. If he came down on the morning after that final parting and had to listen to his landlady saying ‘what a nice boy’ Marco was he knew he would not be able to take it.

“What was the point in you jumping in like that?” Jean hissed later, when they were out of the house. “She’d only grabbed a spoon. So what, I’d have a small lump on my head. Who knows, it might have improved things.”   
Marco smiled sheepishly. “Just a reflex I guess.”  
“Well, you’d have looked dumb if she’d grabbed a knife.”  
“I don’t think she’d have done that over such a small argument.”  
“Did you hear that then?”  
“Just the last bit. The bit where you called her old.”  
“I was rather proud of that actually,” Jean admitted with a lopsided grin. The grin slid out of sight though when he caught sight of a green hood at the far end of the street. The figure moved, and Jean saw the wings of freedom flicker like the wings of a crow at a wedding. Jean’s heart thudded in his throat. The person in the hood walked on, and Jean didn't feel himself breathe again until after they had gone completely from sight. Marco was looking at him with a bemused expression.  
“Thought I saw an old ex-girlfriend,” Jean muttered.  
Marco blushed and said nothing. They had been heading in the same direction the Survey Corps person had gone, but now Jean turned them down a side street, into a narrow passage he didn't particularly recognise, but imagined emerged in one of the other main streets. It took Jean some time to get re-orientated. Honestly, it was so much easier with manoeuvre gear. Walking after that felt just a wee bit tedious. Marco said nothing the whole time they were lost. When Jean looked behind him he saw him looking up towards the sky with a peculiar sort of expression on his face. He was looking at the rooftops Jean realised.  
“Are you remembering stuff?” Jean asked, fearing what sort of answer he would make.  
“A little. Not much though,” Marco said. He looked back down at the ground. There was music coming from somewhere in the distance, someone playing the fiddle. A crowd of people had gathered around a small girl, grubby and poorly-dressed, but holding a perfectly maintained fiddle in her little hands. She looked like a street-child, possibly a refugee from Wall Maria. Jean saw Marco smile sadly at her. Jean dropped a few coins for her as they passed by, but didn't stop to see if she had received them. Marco was quiet for some time afterwards, but Jean did not feel the concern of yesterday, for him at least. His mind was occupied with the figure in the Survey Corps uniform. It was of course perfectly possible that they had nothing to do with him, but he could not be sure. If they were there for him though, they were going to struggle to find him. He hadn't told anyone where he was going, so there was hardly a trail for them to follow. He might have mentioned revisiting Trost, but had mentioned no other details.  
“You said this morning about going into the Wall Rose interior…”  
“You want to get out of the city for a bit?”  
Marco nodded. He looked pale. They headed for the gate. As they neared it, Jean saw the thing he had been dreading. Standing there, talking to the members of the garrison force, was the person in the Survey Corps cloak. He stopped, drawing Marco to a halt with him. Marco looked at him with a frown. Jean felt him about to step forward, to ignore him and walk on. If they were part of the Survey Corps, then there was a chance they were someone they knew. There was no way Jean could drag Marco back down the street without drawing attention, and he could hardly get him to turn around without giving him a reason. Jean had no choice. He took a long look at the person in the cloak. They were short. Jean tried not to panic. It could be Captain Levi; they were that short. But there really wasn't any reason for Levi to come looking for him. No, it had to be one of the other short ones, like Armin or Connie. Jean wondered if they could slip past them. They could use the garrison troops as a screen. They were already congregating around the Survey Corps person. Jean guessed they were probably bored. He checked to see that Marco was still with him. He wasn't.

At that moment the person at the gate turned around, prompted by one of the troops who was pointing in Jean’s direction. Jean saw the glint of yellow hair beneath the hood, but cared little that his guess had been correct.  
“Jean!” Armin was already running towards him. Jean almost turned on his heel, but he saw Armin was in full uniform, complete with 3-D gear, and would have been able to catch him easily. He caught no sight of Marco anywhere. He could not understand how he had managed to slip away so quietly. It occurred to him, feverishly, that maybe, somehow, Armin was responsible and that his presence had been the cause for Marco’s sudden disappearance.  
“What the hell do you want?” he snapped. Armin stopped, swallowed, and with a determined look on his face answered him.  
“You've not been acting like yourself, Jean. You left without-…”  
“Shit, forgot I was surrounded by fucking oracles. Do me a favour Armin and piss off back to the Inner District. I’ll be back in a few days I just-…”  
“Jean, what’s gotten into you?”  
“Oh, I don’t know, make a wild guess. I’m sure you've already got something worked out. Maybe it’s just me, maybe I’m not cut out for any of this. Maybe I just can’t-“  
There were tears stinging in the corners of his eyes. Armin was staring at him, his eyes round as blue pennies. Jean had the urge to kick him in the shin and run. He didn't know what had happened to Marco, but he needed to find out. It wasn't that he thought he would get hurt exactly, but he couldn't bear the thought of that being it, the short day and night they had had. Jean turned away from Armin. If Armin wanted to follow him, he could go ahead. It wouldn't be that much of a hassle, probably like dragging a small child in a temper tantrum around. As he thought he would, Armin grabbed for his sleeve. Jean ignored him. One of the garrison troops shouted after him. They were coming over towards them. Jean groaned, and realised that, in this situation, he had his back to the wall. “Armin, I’m sorry,” he murmured, leaning over him. Armin relaxed his ineffectual hold on his sleeve. Jean leant down and performed on Armin the same phenomenal head-butt that the instructor had used to welcome him into the Trainee Squad.


	9. Chapter 9

Jean felt bad about Armin. That small yelp of pain had followed him more persistently than the shouts of the garrison troops and the insults they’d hurled. Despite all that, he still felt a small measure of pride at having managed the move with such effectiveness. He could just about bear the throbbing in his skull, but it was seriously impairing his ability to think. And right now, he needed his power of thought to be able to think like Marco. Where would he go? Well, it would have been easier to answer if Jean had had any idea exactly where Marco’s head was at. Would his subconscious draw him back to the place of his death? Or might he have gone back to the house? He could have gone to the river, or to a section of the wall like yesterday. It would take Jean the rest of the day to check everywhere, and now the garrison would be looking for him, and he might still miss Marco no matter what he did. He decided to head for the house first. It was the closest, and then he could follow the route they had taken yesterday. It would be tough going, especially if he ended up running everywhere, but he could do it. He tried not to think about the possibility that, despite all this effort, he would not be able to find Marco, not until he returned of his own will. He didn't even know what had set him off. It wasn't an argument like yesterday. Jean wished he hadn't panicked so much at the gate. Maybe that was the reason.

He made it to the house. The landlady shook her head at him and at his frantic question. He went back out onto the street, and tried to recall the twists and turns they had taken to make it to that broad street where he’d found Marco’s body, or what was left of it anyway. He saw a garrison jacket flash by, but managed to avoid its owner by a few steps. He bumped into people, inducing one vigilante individual to stick out their foot in his path to send him flying. To Jean’s minor satisfaction he ended up causing them as much, if not more, pain than himself. He was up again in seconds, darting into the street he recognised. Someone came up behind him, and pulled his feet out from under him. Jean struck the floor with his chin, biting a chunk out of his lip in the process.  
“Crap, I’m sorry,” said Armin, with no hint of irony. Any pride Jean had previously felt vanished completely.  
“You…You tripped me?”  
“Oh, you’re bleeding lots. I’m really sorry Jean. I didn't mean for you to-“  
“Don’t care. Haven’t got time for this.”  
“Jean, just tell me what’s happening! Why the hurry?”  
Jean got to his feet, Armin shielded his forehead, a lump already rising to prominence on his brow, until he too was standing, as if fearing a repeat of Jean’s earlier attack. There was a member of the garrison standing by him, looking rather steely-eyed at Jean, an expression of disgust apparent on his face. Jean glowered back.  
“Armin, kindly leave me the fuck alone.” For some reason Jean was still vaguely hoping that bad language would be potent enough to exorcise the blond harbinger of doom currently darkening his vision. “Please?”  
Jean was getting the feeling luck was not on his side at this precise moment in time. It was a good thing there wasn't a Titan anywhere nearby. Jean hoped he hadn't just jinxed things. Armin had on his determined face again.  
“Jean, we need to go back to Wall Sina. They found something there and-“  
“And I already said I’ll be back in a few days. Can it not wait until then?”  
Armin looked shocked, and still a little hurt. To be fair, Jean thought, he was being rather nice about the head-butt.  
“Sorry, Armin. I’m just…My head’s not in the best place right now.”  
“Is this about Marco?” Armin said quietly. Jean’s look obviously told him everything. “I know he was important to you but-“  
“Armin, thank you, for the thought and all but I do not want to listen to this right now. I will tell you where I am staying but I am going nowhere with you right now.”  
Armin’s expression was tense. He didn't say anything for a few moments, and then reluctantly accepted Jean’s address. Jean wiped some of the blood from his lip and chin off on his sleeve. Armin had not moved an inch. His expression still betrayed the same emotions as before. He opened his mouth, a hand reaching towards Jean.  
“No,” Jean snapped, “I do not want to talk about it.”  
“I’m not leaving you on your own.”  
“You know, for a frail little shit you are really damn persistent.”  
“Jean, something’s bothering you and –“  
“Yeah, right now that thing is you.”  
“It’s not going to work Jean. I've put up with worse. You being hostile is what’s –“  
“Oh, in that case: Hey Armin, great to see you, do you mind catching up a little later, I’ve got something I want to sort out right now.” He was seriously considering running. Armin would just have to chase him. Marco wasn't here, not lying in the street, not hiding in one of the alleys and not standing in plain sight. He looked back at Armin. The smaller boy was looking at the ground, his hands curling round the collar of his cloak. Jean felt like a dick, but he had to lose him somehow. He ran while he had the chance, looking back only once to determine that he was not trailing along behind him.


	10. Chapter 10

He spotted him after about ten minutes. It was how close he stood to the edge that worried Jean at first. As he got closer though he saw a fresh cause for concern. He’d made it to the riverside, and there was Marco a step from the ledge. Jean wasn't entirely sure Marco could swim, he knew he couldn't, but it seemed safer to assume not. Jean didn't shout, in fear he would startle him and force him to take the next step. There was a chance that a passing boat would be able to fish him out, though there seemed greater chance it would roll on over him. But then Jean made it within clearer sight, and saw the way Marco’s hand touched the right side of his face, covering the eye completely. The look on his face rekindled Jean’s fears, as Marco stared into the depths of the water as if staring into a pit of twisting souls. He didn't even look up as Jean ran towards him, barely stirred when Jean wrapped his arms around his waist and pulled him backwards. Jean didn't say anything, hoping he’d let his mind run on ahead of him, hoping it wasn't what he thought. He panted, his face pressed to the back of Marco’s neck. He felt Marco drop his hand.  
“You don’t really think I’d do that, do you?” he mumbled. It didn't sound all that much like Marco. Marco never sounded that lost, or maybe Jean had just never heard it.  
“Well what the hell else were you doing standing about like that?”  
People were turning to look at them, and Jean felt angry that no one had stepped in to guide Marco back from the edge of the river. If he had arrived any later, he wondered if Marco would still be standing there.  
“I was just thinking,” Marco sighed. “The water made it easier to think.”  
“About what? Think about what, Marco?”  
Marco shook his head. “I've forgotten it all already.” He moved to separate himself from Jean, but Jean held tight. “What happened to your face? You’re bleeding.”   
“You did it again, you disappeared.”  
“Did I? I don’t-“  
“Marco, don’t pull amnesia on me. Why did you go?”  
“I don’t know.”  
Jean let go so that he could see Marco’s face. As soon as Jean moved Marco lowered his head and pressed it against Jean’s shoulder. “I really don’t know,” he said, his voice muffled by Jean’s body. “One moment, we were walking towards the gate and then I…I was standing in one of the streets, and I don’t remember how I got there.” His voice was tightened by panic. Whatever had happened it had obviously freaked him out.  
“You could have tried to find me.”  
Marco shook his head. “I think maybe there’s something wrong with me. Something I missed before.” There was a pleading tone in his voice.  
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Jean assured him.  
“How do you know that?”  
“Ok. If it happens again you should go see a doctor, but not now. You’re fine, aren't you?”  
“You’ll keep an eye on me? Tonight, I mean. If I stop breathing while I’m sleeping you’ll…-“  
“I’ll give you the kiss of life if I have to. Maybe it’s just stress. I've heard stress can do all kinds of messed up stuff to you.”  
He got a weak, conciliatory smile for that, though he knew he was running out of chances. He was getting a handle on this business of falsehoods, though even he didn't know what was going on. Perhaps the spell, or whatever it was, ceased to have an effect outside of a certain area. He’d used it in Trost, and so in Trost Marco must remain.

They walked back in relative silence. Marco had his hood up; Jean suspected it was simply to prevent him from seeing his face. He thought he had felt the brief touch of tears soaking through his shirt, when Marco had pressed his face to his shoulder, but it might have been his imagination. They passed a group of garrison troops at one point, one of whom jeered at Jean, ridiculing him for his earlier treatment of Armin. Thankfully he did not mention his name, and Marco did not seem to hear in any case. When they got into the house his earlier suspicions were confirmed when the first thing Marco did was to wash his face.  
“Another friend of yours has been by,” the landlady said, while Marco was out of the room. She described Armin, commenting on how it baffled her how such an unpleasant character as Jean had such good friends. Jean felt ice creep over his skin, the hairs on his arms stood straight.  
“What did you say to him?”  
“Well, he was very interested to know how you were. You've put him into quite the little tizzy, you have. Said he worried about you being all on your own.”  
Jean closed his eyes and groaned.  
“And so I told him about the nice lad with the freckles that’s staying with you.”  
“I thought you might have done,” Jean sighed, shielding his eyes with his hand. That was that, then. He had to go find Armin, before he came back. He couldn't let him see Marco without telling him first. He could waylay him on the stairs maybe, explain it as best he could, but Marco would have to be upstairs and there had to be no danger of him coming down at the wrong moment.  
“I don’t suppose you have anything to aid sleep.” He was going to follow this up with some plausible, and mostly truthful, account of his own difficultly in sleeping, but the look she gave him so clearly stated the nefarious purpose she imagined she would be aiding that he gave up immediately. Evidently she considered him capable of every rotten act under the sun.  
“What? You think just because I look like a crone I’m a witch too? And even if I was, what makes you think I’d give anything to you.”  
“It wouldn't be for free,” he muttered in response. The answer was still a no. Jean’s luck had turned though, to some degree. When he went upstairs he found Marco drowsy, curled up on the bed, though it was hardly afternoon yet. Jean didn't try to move him further up the bed, leaving him lying on his side near the end like a cat. It crossed his mind briefly that Marco was faking, and that he had somehow heard the conversation downstairs and then comprehended that it would be easier on Jean if were to fall asleep, so convenient it all was. Act or not, Jean didn't dare try and wake him. He went downstairs to wait for Armin.


	11. Chapter 11

He did not have to wait for long. Barely half an hour passed before Armin, the bruise still prominent on his forehead, knocked on the door. He was let in by the landlady. Jean asked her, with considerable politeness he thought, though she glared at him regardless, if she didn't mind leaving them alone for a little while. A tense silence fell even before she left the room. Jean was waiting for Armin to say something, he was not sure he cared to do it himself, but Armin seemed unable to ask the question which was evidently in his mind.  
“It is him.” Jean said at last, “I didn't just go out and find a lookalike.”  
“Jean…”  
“Don’t look at me like that. I’m not mad. You can see him if you want to, just don’t, whatever the hell you do, look surprised. Please Armin, I’m begging you, you cannot let him know that he’s…that he’s-“  
Jean could barely raise his head to look at Armin's face, to see how he took it. Whether he believed him or not was not important at this point, he would as soon as he saw Marco, what was important was that he promised to act normal.  
“Your cloak and jacket. Can you take them off? I've made him think it’s only the day afterwards. You know…he said he wants to join the Survey Corps with us.” Jean let out a shaky breath, which might have been the beginnings of a tense laugh, and held his head in his hand. Armin was still silent. A few, slow seconds later Jean heard him start to undo his cloak.  
“It’s only until tomorrow evening. Then things go back to how they were.”  
Armin lay his jacket down on the table. Jean looked up at him at last. He looked terrified. His eyes were wide, and Jean didn't know if it was the prospect of seeing Marco again, or of facing up to the fact one of his comrades was insane which made him look that way.  
“Armin, try to tone it down a bit. Your face could make a child cry right now.”  
Armin swallowed, and made an effort. It didn't do much but it certainly improved things. Jean moved towards the stairs, his heart pulsing in his throat it felt. He opened the door to his room, putting his head round the door to check that Marco was still there, still asleep. He was. Cradling his arms to his chest, his expression was everything it had not been barely an hour before. Armin made a sound, which he muffled beneath his hands. Jean was grateful for that, or maybe Armin was still terrified and just didn't want Marco to wake up because he wasn't ready to accept that this was him, his body, here and alive. The short boy took an awkward step towards the bed, where he could see more clearly that Marco was indeed breathing, and that he wasn't mistaken. Armin dove towards the bed. Jean darted out to grab him, but it was too late. Marco had woken up. He beamed when he saw Armin, holding onto his arm. Jean held his breath, feeling as if his head were about to simply float away he felt so dizzy, so disconnected, as if this were all going on apart from him; a play he was observing.  
“I’m so glad you’re alright,” Armin said, in a cross between a squeak and a whimper. Jean relaxed, he was going to play along.  
“Armin? Is that you?”  
“Can’t you tell from the girly voice?” Jean muttered, walking forward and patting Armin on the head. He couldn't express how grateful he was at just that moment, but he hoped Armin knew it.  
“Jean said there was some sort of inquiry – about Eren?”  
“Yeah, there is. But he’s alright now. The Survey Corps are going to take custody of him, since they’re convinced of his usefulness to mankind now. It was close though.”  
Bless that little, blond brat, thought Jean, he wasn't missing a beat. Marco seemed happier than before, and Jean couldn't help but feel a little jealous, or inadequate at the very least. He’d been skirting steadily towards disaster he thought, but now it seemed things were going to be alright again.  
“Marco, you’re not hurt at all are you?” Armin asked.  
Marco shook his head. “No, I was lucky I guess.”  
Armin’s expression faltered for a moment, but he managed to turn his head away without making it obvious. What Jean couldn't understand was why Armin then glared at him.  
Marco’s hand raised again to that side of his face. It was as if he didn't realise he was doing it. His expression didn't change. Jean had to fight the impulse to reach out and grab his arm again, just to get him to stop. Armin’s expression became grave momentarily, but he hid it again as best he could.  
“Well, I need to get back,” he said awkwardly, getting up from the bed and stepping away from Marco. Jean watched him closely. When Armin went to the door he called, “I’ll go with you.”  
To Jean’s relief Marco didn't seem to want to go as well. He was conscious he’d been ordering him around too much.

Outside Armin looked angry. He didn't say anything at first, though he tried to.  
“How?” he said at last, in a lower pitch than usual.  
“Weird lady with a ball of wool…” Jean answered. When Armin asked for the why, Jean couldn't articulate it.  
“It’s cruel,” Armin said softly, bitterly, as they walked side by side. Jean didn't know what Armin meant, but it soon became apparent.  
“How can you do that to him?” Armin shrieked. Jean could see tears in his eyes.  
“What…?”  
Armin didn't explain, turning his head away angrily, and pulling up his hood. “I can walk on my own from here.”  
Jean stopped, struck dumb by the reaction he had provoked.  
“What will you do? Tomorrow night?” Armin asked, his voice softening a little.  
Jean shrugged. “I’d tried not to think that far-“  
Armin’s expression tightened again. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye,” he muttered tersely. Jean watched him leave, and wondered for the first time if he had been wrong in wanting Marco back so much, in actually bringing him back like this.


	12. Chapter 12

Jean ended up staying up most of the night with Marco.   
“Just because I can’t sleep doesn't mean that you have to stay up too,” Marco murmured. He sat at the end of the bed, his knees tucked up to his chest.  
“Didn't you say before you wanted me to keep an eye on you?” Jean sat at the other end of the bed, with the pillows propped up behind him. They sat together in the dark, for the landlady did not approve of late burning candles.  
“I know, but if you can sleep then you should. I’ll be fine.”  
“Well I can’t, so there.”  
“Can you tell me again what happened? I mean, how hard did I hit my head?”  
Jean hissed. “I can’t remember it all Marco. It happened quick, alright.”  
“You like Mikasa right?”  
“I liked her hair I guess. Why?”  
Marco shrugged in the dark. “Just, trying to think of things to say.”  
“Is this so you won’t fall asleep?”  
Marco made a quiet noise which sounded like a yes.  
“Marco, why don’t you want to fall asleep?”  
Jean heard another incomprehensible mumble.  
“At least come sit over here. Then I can punch you if you start to nod off. You look like a gargoyle or something hunched up at the end of the bed like that.”  
Marco moved, albeit slowly, and settled next to Jean. He sat as close to him as he could, leaning against him.  
“Shit, you’re really cold.” Jean snatched up the blanket from the end of the bed and draped it around Marco. “Have you been standing near an open window or something?”  
Marco shook his head, pulling on the edges of the blanket and toying with an edge of frayed fabric. Jean took hold of one of Marco’s hands and felt how cool it was. There hardly seemed to be any heat left in it.  
“Damn it. Marco, come here.” Jean pushed Marco in front of him and wrapped his arms around him, with some vague notion of sharing his body heat.  
“Is that helping?” he said after a few minutes. Marco nodded. Jean reached for his hand, but Marco had them wrapped up and pressed tightly to his middle, as if to alleviate some pain there.  
“Jean, you look after yourself, don’t you? In the Survey Corps…”  
“Marco, what are you talking-“  
“Don’t lie. Please don’t lie.” Marco hunched over further and trembled. All Jean could see was his back, shivering with concealed sobs. “I’m sorry. I couldn't – I couldn't keep it up, p-pretending I don’t know. I’m not supposed to be here, am I?” And then, before Jean could respond, “I wasn't quick enough. It was there before I even noticed it and then I c-couldn't do anything. I tried to move. I really did, but it got my leg and t-t-then –“   
“Stop! Marco, just stop.” Jean lowered his head, pressing the side of his face to Marco’s back. He could hear it still, his heart beating, dashing along at rabbit pace in his rib cage. He felt him shudder. But Marco couldn't stop. He opened his mouth again and from it came tumbling the truth about the pain, how slow it had all seemed, and Marco still thinking, right up until the teeth sunk deep into skull and he couldn't think anymore, that it couldn't really be happening, not to him. Jean pressed both his hands over Marco’s mouth.  
“I can’t, I’m sorry. I can’t hear this.”  
Marco’s cheeks felt damp. Jean felt every halting breath on his hands. His palm became hot. “I’m sorry Marco. I’m so sorry.”

They didn't sleep, but they didn't speak either. Marco lay separate from Jean, staring at the ceiling. Jean wanted to move closer to him, but something told him it was a bad idea. Sometime after midnight Jean heard Marco start to cry again. He was trying not to, and Jean could hear that as well, but it still ended up being loud. All the same, Jean didn't feel like it was a good idea to touch him right now. When the crying didn't stop, becoming painful sounding sobs, Jean tried calling out his name quietly. Marco didn't respond, but then, he was crying so hard he probably couldn't speak anyway.  
“Marco, I’m sorry.”  
Through half incomprehensible sobs Marco absolved him of the blame as best as could, but as long as the sound of crying echoed round the room Jean could not rest easy. Although now that Marco had spoken, Jean felt able to shuffle over to him and lay a hand on his back. Marco flinched, making a short, pained sound. Jean looked and realised he was touching his right side.  
“Is it hurting again?”  
“…yeah,” Marco sniffed. His left hand was clasping the sheets tightly, the joints all locked in a position which seemed to hint of constant, wearying pain. Jean knew there were medicines that might help, but there was nowhere he could get such things at this time of night, unless his landlady had something.  
“Hang on, I’ll go see if I can find something that’ll help, alright?”  
Marco didn't say anything, and Jean moved around him, stepping as lightly as he could manage on the floorboards. He knew there was one that creaked, somewhere near the door, but he was never exactly sure where. He found it, of course, and the world seemed to hinge on the subsequent sounds, or lack thereof, of the following moment. When silence succeeded, apart from the sound of Marco’s feverish breathing behind him, Jean felt ready to move on to the stairs. These too had their dangers, but he was more confident now. He moved with ease downwards, into the hall and on to the kitchen. That any powders or tinctures would be labelled he took for granted, and that they would come with instructions he hoped, but did not expect. He opened the various cupboards, finding nothing but jars of spices and preserved. He looked up high, but the landlady was not especially tall nor nimble, and he could not imagine her climbing on top of counters in order to reach things placed beyond the natural limits of her stature. Failure after failure was met with stern silence, he knew better than to curse. He could not hear the sound of his landlady’s snores, coming from her bedroom just off from the kitchen, but neither could he see the light of a lamp spilling from under her door. He edged on, round the table, to try for the little parlour behind it. He had never been to this room before. He unlatched the door, praying it would not creak, and the prayer was answered. He stepped in to the inky darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust and scanning the room for any likely looking cupboards or cabinets. His foot struck something, which glided across the floor with a rasping sound. Looking down he saw the vague shape of a wicker basket, great bundles of wool stuffed inside it. He stepped over it, heading towards a shelf on the far side of the room. There was a strange, musty smell which lingered in the room which was not alone the product of dust. Jean’s fingertips contacted glass, slightly slimy glass, on the shelf. The contents were too shrouded in shadow to be identified, but the scent Jean detected with less than pleasant. There was a cough, sharp and purposeful, behind him in the dark.  
“You won’t find what you’re looking for there.”  
“I’m sorry, my friend he’s-“  
“I know what the matter with your friend is.” The landlady bent down and picked up the balls of wool that Jean had scattered and failed to pick up. They were red, bright as fresh blood. “I would have warned you, but you have to ask, see.”  
“Warned me about what?” It felt like there was a draft, blowing in icily around his ankles. Jean tried to see her face in the dark, but it was as indistinct in the shadow as it had been the last time he had met her.  
The landlady, the witch, sighed, placed the basket down at her feet. “Come into the kitchen, I shall make you something to take to him.”

In the kitchen she lit a lamp, setting it to the dimmest of flames while she went to those same cupboards Jean had earlier checked and drew out various bottles he had dismissed.  
“Had you been content with one day, it should have been better for both of you.” She brought out a pestle and mortar, and began grinding up some of the ingredients.  
Jean sat at the kitchen table, his head in his hands. “What do you mean? What’s going to happen?”  
“You know what will happen,” she said, sharply. “He will die, again.” She sighed, tipping up the mortar and pouring a thin powder into a cup, to which she added water. “It happens too often, I find. You did not consider him, only yourself.”  
“That’s not true.”  
“You can ask yourself that, whether or not what I’m saying is true. You shall have time to do so.” She stirred the mixture, and held the cup over the lamp flame to heat it.  
“I just-“  
“Yes, that is it. You just. You just wanted to see him again, to speak to him one last time, to hold him,” she laughed coolly. “Did you not consider that the dead are the ones who are content?”  
“You’re the one who made me the offer! I wouldn't have wanted it if you hadn't-“  
“No, you would not have done it if I had not approached you. I would not have been able to approach you if you had not wanted it.” She handed the cup to Jean. “Get him to drink that. It should numb the pain for a while.”  
Jean took it from her, resisting the urge to snatch it from her hand. Her face was unclear in the dark, shadowy and changeable. He could not recall her appearance at all, he just knew it was the same person.  
“Thank you.”  
“There’s no use in you being polite now. It shan't change things.” She looked towards the lamp. The light upon her face flickered, and everything about her seemed in flux. Jean could not even tell her age anymore.

When Jean returned to Marco he could tell that things had gotten worse. He lit the lamp by his bed, no longer fearing the wrath of his landlady, now that he knew who she was, and by the glow he could see the bruised, bloodied pockets on Marco’s lips where he had bitten them to stop himself from crying out. There could not be a whole day of this to endure. Jean handed over the mixture, hoping this would be the end of it here. Marco didn't even ask what the thing was, he drank it without complaint. Jean felt his forehead. It didn't feel particularly hot, but his hair was damp with sweat. Marco made a feeble sort of sound and curled up into more of a ball.  
“Is it really bad?” Jean asked, sitting on the bed next to him.  
Marco shook his head, but the movement caused him to seize up. Jean wasn't sure whether to be happy or not that he was trying to hide it from him, whether that meant it wasn't all that bad. The medicine, whatever it was, evidently started to work. Marco stopped clawing the sheets and relaxed, falling into a deep sleep. Jean listened for each breath, fearful it would not come. Pain ceased to appear on Marco’s face, and he looked like he had on the first night, which was how he had looked when he was really alive. Jean curled up beside him, closing his eyes and listening for the sounds of breath and heartbeat. Whatever he said now, Marco wouldn't hear him.


	13. Chapter 13

Jean dozed off sometime near dawn. He woke up to see Marco leaning over him, staring at him. It felt like one of those times back at the training camp, when Jean had overslept and Marco was the only one willing to go and wake him up.  
“Morning,” Jean mumbled. Marco smiled, but it didn't reach as far as it normally did. “Uh, how are you feeling?” Jean asked.  
“Good. Your landlady gave me some more of that stuff. I can’t really feel anything anymore. It’s great”  
Jean poked him in the face, aiming for a specific freckle. “Did you feel that?”  
Marco smiled. Then his face crumpled, and in a few seconds tears were dripping onto Jean’s face. Marco moved quickly backwards, making a horrible, sobbing sound.  
“I don’t want to have to go. I miss you! I don’t want to go back.”  
Jean sat up and reached for him. Marco moved aside. He kept saying how sorry he was, Jean told him to stop it.  
“Hey, pull yourself together, ok?”  
“I can’t!” Marco said, in the closest thing to anger Jean had ever heard from him. “I’m dead!”  
Jean winced. “Please, don’t say that.”  
“I’m sorry,” Marco said again, still sobbing.  
“Marco, forgive me.”  
Marco looked at him, still struggling to stop himself from crying. He nodded shakily. “Y-you’ll stay with me, right? Until it’s over?”  
Jean nodded stiffly. He didn't want to think about this. He listened to the words as if they were colours, without form or message, only vague things.  
“I don’t want to be alone…like before.”  
“I’ll stay. I’ll stay if you want me to.”  
Marco’s answer was another sob, crudely twisted into words. Jean took hold of him again, loosely wrapping his arms around his middle. He avoided touching his right side as far as he was able.  
“…don’t regret it,” Marco mumbled.  
“What?”  
“I said, I don’t regret it.”  
“Fuck…”  
“What’s the matter?”  
“You, Marco. You keep saying all this shit and I don’t think my tear ducts can take it.” Jean wiped his eyes and rested his head on Marco’s shoulder.  
“I’m sorry.”  
“No, just be quiet for five minutes.”  
“You sound like you’re going to cry.”  
“Cus I am, idiot.”  
They sat in sniffling silence for a few minutes. Marco reached back and lay one of his hands over Jean’s cheek. It was still cold, but against Jean’s face it felt refreshing. Crying had made his face feel hot. He put his hand over Marco’s, trying not to think of how much it felt like a corpse hand.  
“What you said about the Survey Corps, was it because of me?”  
“Yes. It was.”  
“I don’t want you to get hurt.”  
Jean sighed. “If I do…then I’ll be with you right?”  
“I don’t know. Maybe.” Marco sounded hesitant.  
“What’s it like? Whatever comes afterwards…”  
Marco’s hand twitched. He shrugged. Jean felt Marco didn't want him to know. He pulled him closer, as if he could keep him that way.  
“You’re careful though, aren't you? You don’t take pointless risks?”  
“What? Me? I’m the selfish one, remember.”  
“You joined the Survey Corps.”  
“Hey, are you still pissed I didn't tell you? What, did you want me to get out a Ouija board to tell you the big news? I talk to you in my head all the time.”  
“Do you get an answer back?”  
“No, why?”  
“Just checking.” Marco wasn't crying anymore, the smile Jean thought he could hear in his voice sounded genuine. “…sometimes, I think I do hear you though. It’s weird, like, I’m not sure if I’m just remembering stuff or not.”  
“I imagine I can see you, y’know, when important stuff is happening.”  
Marco turned his head round to look at Jean quizzically. He still looked a bit of a mess from crying, but those freckles could make up for many things.  
“Glad I can be of service,” he smiled.  
“You’re like my personal freckled angel,” Jean grinned. Marco groaned, and then laughed, infectiously. Jean felt it start to tickle the back of his own throat, and before he knew it they were both doubled up with laughter. It was probably what would be classed as hysterics, particularly since Jean found he could not stop until long after it had become painful.

“Is it midday already?”  
“Looks that way.”  
They hadn't moved from Jean’s room, remaining splayed out on the sheets.  
“It’s going by really quick,” Marco whispered. “I keep trying to think about stuff I want to say to you, important stuff, but I can’t think of anything you don’t already know.”  
Jean ruffled Marco’s hair. “I guess it’s the same over here. I miss you like hell. I’ve told you that already, but I’ll tell you some more. I mean Armin’s nice, but he’s got Jaeger. One thing though, he’s shorter than you, so I can lean on his head without issue. Well, he doesn’t like it of course, but still, I can lean on his head if I want to.”  
“Like this, you mean.” Marco knelt over Jean and rested his folded arms on Jean’s head.  
“Hey, watch the hair.”  
Marco smiled down at him. “Mm, kinda comfy actually. Your head’s pretty soft.”  
“Was that an insult?” Jean smirked.  
“Maybe.”  
“I was lucky, to have a friend like you.”  
“I still am your friend.” Something in the way Marco said the last word made Jean look up at him. There seemed something sad about how he said it, maybe an air of disappointment.

It was two o’clock. Marco and Jean were sat at the kitchen table, Marco sipping at the third dose of pain killer he had had since morning. The landlady had handed it to him without him saying a word, before Jean had noticed anything was wrong, but before he had finished it he was pale and shaking with pain. He had managed to swallow three quarters of it so far, and seemed to be suffering a little less. Jean still did not like the pallor of his face, or the way his hand clenched, his nails digging into the wood.  
“Ordinarily I wouldn't give a person more than two doses in the space of the day but, well, it can hardly do you much harm, can it now?”  
Jean glowered at the landlady when she said this. Marco’s expression wavered in a mournful condition for a few moments. He reined it in though, and put all his effort into downing the last dregs from his cup. He slumped forward, stretching his arms out over the table. There was a knock on the door. The landlady rose to answer it. Jean put a hand on Marco’s back. It was all he could think to do. Words eluded him, particularly the ones which could have made things seem better. Marco looked at him, still smiling, albeit faintly. The landlady returned, with Armin in tow.  
“He knows,” Jean said, before anyone else could speak. Armin’s expression immediately changed, losing the forced joviality and become instantly more sombre. Marco looked up at him, still with that same sad smile he had offered Jean.  
“He told you?” Armin asked, gesturing at Jean without looking at him. Jean thought he was being unfair to him, the way he seemed to hold the whole thing against him, but he wouldn't say anything in front of Marco.  
“No, I worked it out.”  
Armin sat down opposite Marco, staring at him with wide eyes. “And y-you’re alright with it?”  
“Yeah. I’m happy I got to see you guys again anyway.”  
Jean saw no trace of sadness in him when he was talking to Armin, nothing of the Marco he had had to comfort last night. It occurred to Jean that Marco was doing to Armin what he had tried to do to him at first, and what Jean had in turn attempted to do to him; hiding everything in order to spare feelings. He saw Armin eying the empty cup. The herbal scent from the concoction still hung in the air.  
“Does it hurt much?” Armin said next. Jean resented the little blonde for his sagacity, helpful as it usually was.  
Marco paused, seemed to understand what Armin had realised. “A little, but nothing I can’t put up with.”  
Armin grabbed Marco’s hand suddenly. Tears were already dripping onto the table.  
“How can you say that? How can you be so…so calm about it?” He looked so child-like and miserable that Jean was able to forget his previous annoyance. Marco got up from the table, sitting beside Armin and hugging him gently.  
“It’s fine. If you think about it the worst has already happened, there’s nothing more for me to fear.”  
“What was it like?” Armin sniffed. Marco’s face momentarily darkened. He swallowed, drew in a deep breath. Jean interrupted before he said anything.  
“He can’t tell you. It’s against the afterlife club rules or something.”  
Marco looked at him gratefully. Armin ignored him, still sniffing periodically. “Did it hurt much? Getting eaten by a Titan?”  
To Jean’s surprise, Marco answered him without hesitation. “To be honest I was in shock, so I didn't feel it as much as I thought I would.” He didn't look at Jean, as if avoiding his gaze.  
“Seriously?” Armin peered at him.  
“Yeah. It was quick.”  
“That’s good,” Armin murmured, his head resting against Marco’s chest. Jean was trying to get Marco to look at him. Finally he did. The smile was gone, now that Armin wasn't watching. ‘That wasn't what you told me,’ Jean thought, ‘that it was quick…’ Marco looked at him as if he could see what was going on in his head. His eyes flicked back down at Armin, then back to Jean. He shrugged. Jean wasn't going to press him. It was obvious why he was lying and Jean felt good to know that Marco felt he could trust him enough to burden him that way.  
“You look like a mother hen,” Jean muttered, with limited humour. Marco smiled again, briefly.

“Jean.” Marco’s voice was low and urgent, cutting through the former silence. Something in it made Jean’s skin crawl. “It’s got my leg. I c-c-an feel…Jean go, I don’t want you here. Please! I don’t want you-” He cut himself off with a howl, the like of which Jean had never heard before. Even in the midst of battle he had never heard a scream like that.  
The sky was golden. The sun was beginning to duck out of sight behind the wall. Jean, Marco and Armin were in Jean’s room. Marco had started shaking, becoming progressively more pale and feverish as the sky had changed. And now, there was the scream. Armin stared, paler even than Marco.  
“What’s happening?” He started away from Marco, who lay twisted on the bed screeching like nothing human.  
“I don’t know! Marco, hey! Marco, what’s wrong?” Jean tried to grab a hold of him, but Marco’s foot struck out and caught him in the ribs, pushing him away. His hands felt damp. He looked down. “Shit, he’s bleeding from somewhere. Marco!”  
“It’s his shirt, Jean. It’s all over his shirt.”  
Marco’s right side was indeed turning red. He lay on his back, his legs still kicking, striking out across the bed. His left arm was clawing at the sheets, but the rest of his body remained immobile as if held there by some stronger force. His eyes were open, and Jean could see the wound forming on his skin already like the stroke of a pen. Jean heard Armin, coming towards them both. Marco’s eyes met his, or rather his left eye only, for the other did not seem to move but remained half-open catching blood on its surface. Jean covered his body with his own. He lifted Marco up, held him as best he could. The left hand pressed against his arm, squeezed momentarily and then clamped down.  
“Armin, just stay away.” He couldn't let him see this.  
The sound was right next to his ear, a slick, snapping sound. Spots of blood misted over his face, landing in his hair. Marco’s breath on his skin felt warm, as warm as those spots on Jean’s face. Bloody freckles. The noise that he was making. Jean tried to drown it out, so it was impossible for them to hear him.  
Maybe that was what he was doing. Jean felt movement beneath him, unnatural, the texture of it felt so strange. Marco felt lighter, and now the noise had stopped. He felt twitching fingers sliding from his arm. Maybe it wasn't for Marco’s sake that he’d moved so quickly. He could hear Armin, if that was the person he could hear crying, if it was not just him. He was doused in warm, stinking blood. He could feel it creeping down his front, stealing in under his knees, pressed though they were to the bed. In the silence he could hear the drip of it, feel it greasy against his skin. There was no breathing, besides his own, besides Armin sobbing behind him. His fingers brushed the still heart, felt the prickle of bone, the ribcage partially exposed. It felt hot to the touch. The scent of burning superseded the smell of blood. Jean wondered how much Armin had seen, if he’d been quick enough. It was starting to burn his fingers, what he was holding. He let it drop. Smoke rose from the sheets accompanied by flames which touched only one thing. Jean looked down at his front, at the bloody smears and half-discernable fingerprints. His hands shook and he tried to clean them off on the bed clothes. Something pulled him to the side, he felt nails scraping against his skin. A small booted foot struck his side. The smell of the funeral pyre hung close about him. His hands hovered over his chest, still red and slippery. He could read every line in them, running like thread over his palms. A sharp pain in his side. Looking up he saw Armin. He was saying something, but Jean could hardly hear him. He wasn't speaking loud enough, whatever it was. But it seemed it was important, because he kept saying it and saying it until the ringing in Jean’s head ceased and bit by bit he heard the words. ‘My fault,’ he wondered. ‘Was it really my fault?’


End file.
